Andrew Lane - Red Leech

“Very well,” he said. “We’ll stay’

“We don’t have a choice, now,” Virginia pointed out. She indicated the window. Outside, the platform had vanished and the train was speeding up as the line cut across wide dirt streets. He could feel, as well as hear, the clack-clack clack-clack as the wheels of the carriage passed over the joins in the track every hundred yards or so.

Sherlock glanced back down the aisle, towards the men who were holding Matty. “They’re all settled down,” he said. “We should find a seat and work out what we do next. Are we just following them, or are we going to try to get Matty away from them?”

“Depends on what happens,” Virginia replied. “Why do you think they ran for the train so fast?”

“That’s my fault,” Sherlock admitted. “One of them saw me on the street but I managed to hide so he headed back to their hotel. They must have decided to clear out. That’s when Matty managed to tell me where they said they were taking him.” He paused, looking around. “There’s two spare seats over there. Let’s sit down at least.”

The seats were facing backwards, away from the group of men who were holding Matty captive. As they sat, Sherlock glanced out of the window. The train was heading around a curve up ahead, and he could see the engine that was pulling them. Naively, he’d expected it to look like the ones back in England that ran from Farnham through Guildford to London, but this one was different. The basic cylindrical boiler shape was the same, but the small funnel that British trains had was replaced with a massive thing with sloping sides, sticking up from the front of the boiler. And there was some bizarre object attached to the front of the train; a metal grille with a pointed front that seemed to be designed to sweep things off the tracks.

“Buffalo,” Virginia said succinctly, following his gaze.

“What?”

“Buffalo. And cows. They wander across the tracks and sometimes just stay there. The train has to slow down and that thing pushes them out of the way’

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “What about telling the ticket collector?”

“Telling him what?”

“That Matty’s being held hostage.”

“What’s he going to do?” Virginia shook her head, copper-coloured hair swirling around her. “The ticket collector’s usually some old guy coming up to retirement. He won’t be able to do anything.”

The train pushed on. As Sherlock watched, the buildings and roads outside the window gave way to open ground and patches of trees. The bright sunshine made the green vegetation seem to glow of its own accord.

“How long does the journey take?” he asked.

“To Richmond?” She thought for a moment. A day, maybe. Depends if we stop anywhere. And we might have to change trains somewhere.”

A day ?” This country was big. “What about food?”

“There might be a restaurant car at the back. If not, there’ll be people selling food on the stations we stop at. The train stops for long enough that we can get off and grab a bite to eat. And we might even be able to send a telegraph message to Pa at the hotel, or via the Pinker-tons, especially if we write it out first and just hand it in. Most stations have a telegraph office attached.”

“We’ll have to be careful we’re not seen,” Sherlock pointed out.

“We’ll manage,” she said reassuringly.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to check that the men hadn’t moved. One of them was coming towards him, down the aisle. Sherlock quickly turned back, hoping the man hadn’t seen him. It was Berle, the balding doctor. He passed by, and Sherlock watched his back as he moved off down the carriage. He’d have to watch out for the man coming back in the other direction. He’d be facing them then, and he would certainly recognize Sherlock if he saw him again.

It occurred to Sherlock that the most obvious way to disguise his face would be to turn around and kiss Virginia when Berle came back. That way, all Berle would see would be the back of his head. He turned to Virginia and opened his mouth, ready to propose the course of action. She glanced at him, her eyes bright and violet in the sunshine.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking...” he said hesitantly.

“Thinking what?”

It was a simple thing to say — “I might need to kiss you so we don’t get recognized, so don’t be surprised if I do” — but for some reason he couldn’t get the words out. Her face was just a few inches away from his, close enough that he could count the freckles. Close enough that he could just lean forward and touch his lips against hers.

“Nothing. Don’t worry.”

She frowned. “No, what?”

“Really, it’s nothing.” He turned away, keeping an eye out for Berle’s return. If he saw the man he would just look out of the window or something. He realized he was still wearing the flat cap he’d bought in the “notions” shop. He could just slide it down over his eyes and pretend to be asleep. That would work. Probably.

He glanced out of the window again. Telegraph poles were flickering past, one after the other, paralleling the track. Idly, he counted seconds between the poles — one, two, three, four — and then again — one, two, three, four. The poles were spaced equally apart, as far as he could tell. If he knew how far apart they were then he could use the information about the time between them to work out how fast the train was travelling. Not that the information would be any more than just interesting, but it would pass the time.

A small town flashed past, gone as soon as it appeared. All Sherlock had was a sense of low wooden buildings and four-wheeled carts, and lots of horses.

The movement of the train was making him sleepy. He’d used up a lot of energy in running back to the hotel earlier, and the constant tension was beginning to get to him. His body craved rest.

He might have dropped off to sleep for a while, because the next thing he knew he was looking out of the window on to a long drop down to the glittering water of a river. The train was on a bridge, crossing a ravine. From what he could see, the bridge was made of wood, and barely wider than the train.

Virginia sensed his sudden tension. “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’s perfectly safe. These bridges have been around for years.”

Shortly after that, the train began to slow down.

“Coming into a station,” Virginia said.

“Or there’s a buffalo on the line,” Sherlock responded. His mind started sorting through possibilities. Arriving at a station gave them a whole series of options, from just getting a bite to eat, through sending a telegraph message to Amyus Crowe, and all the way to making an attempt to rescue Matty. If they could get him off the train somehow then they could either wait in the town until Amyus Crowe got to them or they could just get a train back again — assuming they ran more than one a day, or one a week. It occurred to him that he had no idea of the frequency of the timetables in this country.

“We need to get out on the platform,” he said. “If we get a chance, we need to separate Matty from those men.”

The train slowed down even more. They were passing a huge field of tall plants with bulbous tops. The only fence Sherlock could see stretched from the train line to the horizon. The sound of the train’s steam whistle suddenly cut through the air: a mournful hoot like the call of some mythical creature. A smattering of barns and houses passed by, then more houses, and then a whole town materialized as the train gradually heaved itself to a halt alongside a boardwalk that was barely raised above the ground.

“Let’s get off,” Sherlock said as the voice of the distant ticket collector bellowed: “This is Perseverance, New Jersey. Ten-minute stop, ladies and gentlemen; ten-minute stop. This is Perseverance.”